


Bury My Body Down by the Highway Side

by britomart_is



Series: Me and the Devil Blues [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Codependent Winchesters, Consensual Possession, Dark, Demonic Possession, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hurt Sam Winchester, Jealous Dean, M/M, Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Rough Sex, Together Till the End, Winchesters in Love, weirdly happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-16 04:16:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5813782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/britomart_is/pseuds/britomart_is
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> <br/><em>Follows Me and the Devil Blues. </em><br/> <br/> <br/>"I miss you," Sam says quietly, a little easier because he doesn't have to (can't) look Dean in the eyes. </p><p>"I'm right here," Dean says, and draws Sam's hand up to his chest, over his heart. Sam imagines Dean curling up behind him like he used to, Dean's possessive arm draped over him in the night.</p><p>"I still miss you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

 

 

Sam pushes his face into the sheets, knees and shoulders bearing his weight while his hands are busy. He's got two fingers working his ass, sliding in and out, more like fucking than gentle preparation. His other hand cups his balls, sometimes wandering up to brush lightly over his shaft, too light for real stimulation. Sam wants to push his hips forward, fuck into his hand, but of course, he can't. Not until Dean gives up the driver's seat.

"Dean, come on, come on, please, fuckin' tease—"

Dean's chuckle rumbles in Sam's chest, and he crooks Sam's fingers, pressing mercilessly into his prostate. There's a gasp when he feels the same spark of pleasure that Sam does. "As much as I like you begging …"

And at that Dean's control clamps down even harder and Sam can't even speak anymore, much less move while Dean fucks him with his own fingers. He pants into the sheets, feels his legs trembling.

Even if Dean stops him talking, doesn't mean Sam can't think at him. _Control freak._

When Dean thinks back at him instead of speaking through Sam's body, it's with his own voice. _Just enjoy it, Sam._

And Sam, paralyzed and silenced, figures that's good advice. A year ago he'd have fought Dean's control on principle, but they never would have made it this far if he hadn't adjusted. Dean'll take good care of him. He always does.

Sam gives a mental shiver and hears Dean laugh, feels it rumble in his throat. Dean pushes a third finger in and gasps as the pleasure flashes through them both.

They started out with Sam on his back. Usually that's fine, but the cheesy fucking motel has a mirrored ceiling, and while Dean loves it, Sam can't stand it. When he's hearing Dean whispering filthy, feeling Dean's assured touch, he doesn't like to look up and be reminded that he's the only body in that bed.

After he comes, Sam drifts lazily toward awareness, catching bits and pieces of the ongoing soundtrack of Dean's post-sex internal monologue— _totally thought it was a myth, maybe for everyone else—_

What's not a myth? Sam thinks at him.

Simultaneous orgasms, Dean thinks, and Sam can finally laugh out loud as Dean lets his voice go.

Sam thinks to himself, in that corner of his mind where Dean can't hear him, _how could anyone say this isn't my brother?_

 

\\\

 

The motel clerk has a crush on Sam. It's becoming a problem, to the point where it's almost worth it to flee to the other motel across town. When she shows up one warm evening with two beers and sparkling eyes, it's the last straw. Sam tries to politely decline over the mental noise of Dean's fury: _pull her heart out through her chest, let me_ out _, Sammy._

Sam gets the woman to leave, claiming exhaustion, turning down her offer of a relaxing back massage, also turning down her offer to come sleep in her bed since it's more comfortable than the ones in the rooms. He shuts the door and sighs, because Dean's sulking.

 _You were flirting with her_ , Dean thinks.

 _Don't be stupid_. Sam kicks his shoes off, pulls his shirt over his head and drops it to the floor.

Dean takes over to unzip his fly, groping a little along the way. _You want to fuck some backwater motel clerk, is that it?_ Dean's rougher than he needs to be, kicks Sam's jeans off, cups him through his briefs. _We can do that, we can go right now._

Sam's seen how that turns out, in those early months, when Dean was still so raw, too frenzied to notice what he was doing to Sam. Waking up with strangers, mostly alive, sometimes with snapped necks, cut throats from the knife under the pillow. When Dean calmed down a little and felt Sam's hurt, they worked it out. No more shoving Sam to the back, taking control and bringing strangers home.

 _You're an idiot_ , Sam thinks, then gasps as Dean squeezes harder, just on the edge of painful. _I want you. I'd think that would be obvious._

Sam can feel Dean coming out of his sulk. Dean hits the light and slides them between the sheets. Sam turns onto his side, watching the shadows on the wall.

"I miss you," Sam says quietly, a little easier because he doesn't have to _(can't)_ look Dean in the eyes.

"I'm right here," Dean says, and draws Sam's hand up to his chest, over his heart. Sam imagines Dean curling up behind him like he used to, Dean's possessive arm draped over him in the night.

"I still miss you."

 

\\\

 

Sam doesn't know what Dean's planning, so it comes as a shock when Dean walks them into an alley and suddenly, Sam finds himself knocked on his ass as black smoke pours from his mouth. It's violent, frightening, worse than being possessed in the first place, because this isn't supposed to happen. Then Dean's hovering in the alley and Sam can't hear him thinking anymore, feels empty and alone inside his own body, and he doesn't know what this means.

Dean darts away, and Sam stands there, nothing to do but wait and hope he comes back, until the man walks around the corner. His eyes flash black. "Hey, Sammy."

"What the fuck are you doing, Dean?" Bad question. Dean's eyes in the stranger's face flash with anger, and he slams Sam against the brick wall. He doesn't answer Sam with words, just gets Sam's dick out and drops to his knees.

Sam's legs can barely support him, has to lean back on the wall, because fuck it's been a long time. Hot, wet mouth wrapped around his dick, and Sam's had nothing but his own hand (and Dean's rhythm moving it) for almost a year. "Dean," he chokes out, and Dean just sucks harder, hands on Sam's ass pushing him to thrust, force his dick down Dean's (a stranger's) throat.

Sam shudders and stills and Dean's there, pushing the taste of Sam's come into his mouth, hands everywhere, mouth roaming down Sam's neck, behind his ear. And Sam realizes how long it's been since he was touched by anything not trying to kill him. "You've got him knocked out, right? He's not gonna remember?" It's a pathetic nod to morality, but Sam needs to know.

"Yeah," Dean grates through the man's abused throat.

And Sam's done worse, so he pushes his jeans down to his thighs, turns to brace his hands against the wall, and feels Dean sinking slowly into him from behind, burning and stretching. Perfect. Dean's gentle at first, knows how easily he could break Sam.

It's a stranger's body, but this is the way Dean fucks him. Facing away, eyes closed, forehead pressed against the brick, dick sliding in and out of his ass in just that frantic rhythm Dean used to keep, Sam can pretend that it's like old times, that he'll turn after and see Dean's flushed face.

After, when Dean pours out of the stranger and back into Sam, it feels safe. Sam can finally be comfortable in his own skin again. The man's body falls to the ground and doesn't move. Dean said he wasn't aware but that could mean a couple things. Sam doesn't check for a pulse because he doesn't want to know.

 

They don't do it often. It makes them both too nervous to be separated, feels unnatural now after so long. But sometimes. Sometimes Dean takes a stranger, some pretty young thing with the bad fortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and they remind each other what another body feels like against their own.

 

\\\

 

Sam talks when they're driving, to a hunt, to Disneyland—Dean never got to go before he died, to a cooler state when summer hits (Dean's had enough of heat), to track down humans nasty enough that Sam can let Dean off the leash and do the rest of the world a favor at the same time. There's plenty to talk about, and all Dean has to do is listen.

The list of Dean's high school girlfriends. Mary's lullabies, only ever recounted to Sam and now retold to Dean. Summer at Pastor Jim's learning Latin. Dean's more likely to remember the stories if they relate to Sam, like everything else was burned away first while Dean clutched Sam close, the last vestige of his humanity, right to the very end.

Sam doesn't hold high hopes that Dean will ever really remember what it was like to be human. He's not sure Dean can fully understand what that means, what he's missing.

But Sam keeps telling the stories anyway, and it makes him feel better, knowing he doesn't carry the burden of their history alone.

 

 


	2. Chapter Two

It all goes to hell (well, not quite, Sam doesn't use those words lightly these days) when they break into a private home, gorgeous estate set off in the woods, a quick in-and-out to grab the cursed tapestry. 

They see the flashlight beam on the wall too late, and then the man's rounding the corner, still in his pajamas and looking terrified, dropping his flashlight to raise the shotgun he's got in his other hand. 

Dean acts on instinct, _rip tear shred guts blood on the walls,_ goes right for the man, so when the shotgun goes off it's practically at point-blank range. 

Sam's mind flits to every creature he's ever shot in the chest and he thinks _oh, that's what it feels like when your lungs fill up with blood_. His knees give out. 

Sam can feel Dean take over, pulling their body back up to standing, but Sam still feels like he's falling. Dean's thought-voice is frantic but Sam's a little hazy, can't quite make the words out. His vision's going narrow, dim, but he can see the man looking like he's about to piss his pajamas as he stares at them—a shotgun wound to the chest and Dean's got them standing steady like it's just a paper cut, not even looking at the man as he silently shouts at Sam. _Talk to me, man, say something! Sammy!_

_It hurts_ , Sam thinks, and then there's nothing. 

 

When Sam's mind floats back to the surface, he looks through his open eyes and finds that he's standing up in front of the bathroom sink. It's not the first time he's woken up to find Dean taking him for a joyride, but it's still a little disorienting. 

Sam looks in the mirror. His eyes are black and his hands are busy stitching up his chest. 

_Hi_ , Sam thinks, and Dean jumps, jabbing Sam with the needle. Sam sees it go in, but only feels a slight pressure. 

"Fuck, Sammy!"

_Why didn't that hurt?_

"You think I'm gonna let you feel a shotgun wound?"

_Oh._

"You can't feel it, right?" And Sam is aware of an ache in his chest, the sense that his insides aren't supposed to be arranged quite that way, but no, he sure as hell doesn't feel like he just got shot to death. 

"No," Sam says, getting his voice back. He takes control of a hand and runs it over the half-finished stitches. The skin is a mess, shredded in a way that doesn't just heal on its own, and underneath where it's not stitched up yet he can see stuff. 

Sam pokes morbidly at his bloodied chest. "Whoa, that's a rib." 

"Stop it, Sammy."

"Do you think it hit my heart? I think it hit my heart."

"Shut the fuck up," Dean says, but if he wanted to he could just shut Sam up himself. Instead he takes them away from the sink and the mirror, back into the other room. Dean sits them down on the edge of the bed, hunches over, elbows on knees, head in hands. 

"Dean?" Sam asks tentatively. "You okay?"

"I thought you were gonna die. Thought I was gonna be—fuck!—walking your corpse around, Sam. So no, I'm not fucking okay!" 

Sam wants to defend himself, not his fault he got shot, but he doesn't think that would help the situation. "But demons can hold people together fine! Meg, she fell off that building and—"

"Well, I've never done it before, all right?" Dean snaps, and Sam shuts the hell up. He realizes he's shaking. Dean's shaking. Dean's scared. 

"Hey," Sam says. "Hey. I'm okay. I'm right here talking to you, man. I'm fine."

"You're not fine." Dean sighs, flops back on the bed. They both look at the stains on the ceiling. "You're—fuck, Sammy, you got a chest full of lead! What happens if—Sam, if I weren't here, you'd be—" Dean breaks off, shuts their eyes. 

Fuck. Sam hadn't really gotten to that point yet, was still kind of processing the _what-the-fuck-shotgun-wound_ , but yeah—fuck. Maybe Sam's not dead, but he's good as. 

Sam shakes that thought away. "You are here."

"What if I—"

"You'll always be here," Sam says, because they've been to hell and back, alienated every friend they had, they've killed and lied and hidden to be together right now, and Sam will not let anything fuck it up. Certainly not some fucking art collector in flannel pajamas. Speaking of which, "What did you do about the guy?"

Dean's silence effectively conveys _Sammy, you fucking idiot_. Sam realizes not all of the blood on him could possibly be his own. 

Sam forgets, almost. When things have been quiet, when it's been just the two of them and no one to threaten their existence, no one to raise Dean's hackles. He forgets, glaring as it is, that he's living with a demon inside of him. 

Then Sam thinks about watching Dean die over and over in Broward County, remembers finding Dean's body when the hellhounds were through with it. He remembers the people he's killed for Dean, and the people Dean's killed for him, and he remembers how many of them came before Dean was a demon or Sam was possessed. 

_No one is ever going to get between us_ , he thinks at Dean, and Dean wearily drags them up the bed and under the covers, still covered in blood, chest half-stitched and Dean holding Sam's insides in. 

Sam retreats to the place in his mind where Dean can't hear him, because when a man's just been shot in the heart, there are things he has to think about. Where would I go? If I die, where will I go? Sam knows the answer, he just doesn't like it. 

Sam doesn't want to burn. There's no one _(no human)_ left to save him. Just a funeral train of one demon. And Sam can't abandon him.


	3. Chapter Three

Sam was afraid of exorcism before. Afraid that they'd find some way to tear Dean out of him and leave him empty, that some stupid fucking hunter could send Dean back to Hell. Sam's fear of temporary separation pales in comparison to Dean's new paranoia that someone will exorcise him and Sam will die alone before Dean can get back in him. Dean thrums with anxiety day and night, and it's giving Sam a headache. 

_I don't think there's a gang of priests hanging out in the Food-Mart waiting to exorcise you, Dean,_ Sam thinks, and Dean's head whips away from the gas pump to stare at the convenience store. Sam sighs. 

"It doesn't take a gang, Sam. It just takes one. You know sooner or later someone's gonna find us and we're gonna have to fight 'em." The man at the next pump over looks at them nervously as Sam appears to talk to himself. Dean smirks. The man drops his eyes meekly to the oil-stained pavement. 

_We'll have to win,_ Sam thinks, and he gets a little nervous himself when Dean doesn't answer. It unnerves him when Dean thinks to himself, intentionally keeps Sam out. _We'll win, Dean._

 

When Dean first suggests it—knowing this is big, that for once he needs to ask Sam instead of just plowing ahead for Sam's own good—Sam thinks he's fucking crazy. It makes his skin crawl. When Sam thinks about it rationally, though, he doesn't see why he should panic. It's what he wants. What they both want. There's just some part of him that can't unlearn what a life of hunting has driven into him. 

He swallows hard as Dean pulls the brand out of the fire, checks to make sure it's white hot. It is. 

"You ready?"

Sam swallows again. "Just do it."

Dean doesn't clamp down on his voice, lets Sam scream when the metal hits his skin. Sam insisted—if Dean was going to feel the pain, he was too. If it weren't for Dean and that superhuman calm they could never do this without assistance. Sam wants to pull away so hard that he actually feels Dean's control over his muscles quiver. _Easy, Sam,_ and Sam tries to breathe, in and out. 

When it's held long enough Dean flings the brand away, goes to wash the burn immediately, his thoughts going _cleanfixcleansafeSammyburninfectioncleansafe_. Sam wants to remind him that he's stressing over a small burn on a body that's still full of buckshot, organs torn to pieces, but decides that Dean's enough of a wreck right now. Not like an infection could really do any more damage, but it makes Dean feel better to clean the wound, dress it with gentle hands. 

He gets a glimpse before Dean covers it up—nasty burn, third-degree, dead nerves and black skin. The new binding link is high on his thigh, where it won't be obvious to civilians. Only Dean will see. 

Dean's been inside him for a year, but now he can't get out. They'll be together till they're dead. Sam almost feels like they should be throwing rice or something. He doesn't have any rice, but maybe they can get a honeymoon suite at the next hotel, splurge and drink the mini-fridge champagne. 

Dean overhears him. _Want me to carry you over the threshold?_

_Yeah,_ Sam thinks back, smiling as Dean tapes down the bandage over the link. _And then I want you to ravish me._

_Don't worry, Sammy,_ Dean thinks, and Sam can feel the smirk forming on his own face. _I promise I'll be gentle._

 

It's awkward as fuck when Bobby shows up at the vampire nest right as they do, but at least he doesn't try to kill them. 

"You're hunting?" Bobby looks incredulous. 

"Well, yeah," Dean answers for them. He's been told about Bobby, Bobby who took care of Sam while Dean was—away. "Not doing a lot of exorcisms, but, you know. Plenty of other fuckers out there need killing." 

_You're sounding a little too enthusiastic, Dean,_ Sam thinks, and yeah, Bobby's looking kind of uncomfortable. 

They take out the vamps together and Sam can tell Bobby's grudgingly impressed by how fast they are, how efficient. They even save Bobby's ass when he gets cornered. 

Bobby's got a motel room nearby, takes them back and they sit on either side of the neutral zone of the small table. Sam takes the beer Bobby offers on faith and it turns out it's nothing but beer, nothing to burn and betray. Bobby asks them how their arrangement is working out, in the same tone he'd ask _so how's the chemo going_? "How … is it?"

"Crowded," Dean says, and that's not really true, more like _complete_ , but even as a demon Dean's retained the same capacity for defensive jokes. 

"We've had our ups and downs," Sam says. Bobby's not trying to kill them, maybe the only hunter who wouldn't gladly cut out Sam's heart, though Sam suspects Bobby's deliberately avoided looking for a trail of bodies that would condemn them. Sam lifts his t-shirt enough to show the stitched-up, unhealed wound over his heart.

Bobby looks like someone's just died, and Sam supposes it's close enough since he's more or less dead, but Dean keeps his heart beating, holds him together, and that's what Dean's always done. 

 

They go west. Sam wants the ocean. He sleeps out on a soft-sand beach, listens to the waves come in. Dean's humming something over and over in his head, but Sam can't bring himself to be annoyed since his mind's as much Dean's space as his own. 

"Do you think we'll live forever?" Sam asks. Dean always tells Sam that he doesn't have all the answers, the logic of the universe as inscrutable to him as it is to Sam. 

"I think the world will end." Dean lets handfuls of sand run between his fingers. Sam supposes Dean would know, hell's the place to be if you want advance word of the apocalypse. 

"Do you think we'll still exist after it does?"

Dean's quiet for a moment before responding, "Seems like we'd have to. We'll be somewhere." Together, they don't have to say, because sometimes it seems like everything that's happened, all the grief and rage, it's all been to make Sam and Dean whole, to make them one. 

It's starting to get light, and when he looks out past the morning fog to the ocean, Sam can see where the world disappears.


End file.
